


Night Shift

by The_Passing_Queer



Category: Night In The Woods (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Gay Male Character, Gen, Halloween, Harfest, Late Night Conversations, Late at Night, Punk, Snacks & Snack Food, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Passing_Queer/pseuds/The_Passing_Queer
Summary: Gregg works the counter at the Snack Falcon on a warm August evening. A chance encounter with a horror-obsessed teenager results in an unexpected connection.A one-off autumnal fic, written in response to the complete lack of Gregg & Lori interaction in the game and on this site –– I think the two would get along very well, if they had the chance to meet. Here's that chance!
Relationships: Lori Meyers & Greggory Lee
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Night Shift

Gregg hadn’t noticed the buzz of the Fiascola cooler before –– but then again, time had never moved as slowly as it did that evening.  


He’d gotten used to being bored at work. During his first few months at the Snack Falcon, he came to the slow realization that barely anyone who actually lived in Possum Springs needed a convenience store. Convenience stores were for people passing through, who needed a bag of Snake-Ums and a blueberry slushie to keep them awake as they drove. 

“I guess most people just drive up to the Ham Panther now,” Angus had said, the previous evening. “Do you even have regulars?”

“Some of the little punk kids come in once a week,” Gregg answered. “I busted one of them trying to steal from the store. He did a miserable job at it, too. Kept looking back at me.”

“You kick him out?”

“No, I taught him how to steal properly,” said Gregg, grinning. “Told him I’d be watching and he should do a better job of looking innocent.”

Standing alone at the counter, Gregg chuckled to himself, recalling Angus’ disappointed sigh. But what could he do? Kids needed snacks, and he’d stolen enough when he was their age. He was just returning the favor. Getting capitalism right in its wallet. 

Man, how hadn’t he been fired yet?

The memory faded away, leaving only the monotonous drone of the cooler in its place. Gregg once again gazed out the window, into the dark summer air. This was his first night shift since the Snack Falcon began operating until 1AM –– an utterly pointless attempt to bring in a little more revenue and stave off the building’s inevitable foreclosure and conversion into apartments. It had happened to the Gyro Hero, Snack Falcon was just next in line.

Gregg hated working nights. True, he hated working days, too. But during the day he could people-watch, out the window, at the denizens of Possum Springs walking down the sidewalk. Gregg kept a journal with him, under the register. Dr. Hank had asked him to write down his fears in the journal, but he’d repurposed it to write biographies of the people he didn’t know. Granted, after twenty years in town, he knew just about everyone. But every now and then there’d be a stranger sauntering by the window, maybe even stepping into the store itself. And as Gregg sold slushies and cigarettes and lip balm, he would take note of their clothing, their expressions, the tone of their voices. 

He didn’t plan on  _ doing _ anything with these imagined people –– a fact that confused Angus to no end (“You should write a book, Bug,” he kept insisting). But on a dry, warm night like this, when he yearned to be running in the wind but was trapped in the airless fluorescence of the Snack Falcon, Gregg could flip through the human bestiary in his notebook, hoping one of these strangers would stroll by. 

It was just before midnight –– only another hour before he could close up shop and go back to Angus. He’d be asleep at this point, but just to cuddle up next to his body was comfort enough. Gregg sighed, imagining Angus here with him. Maybe some evening he’d convince Angus to stay the night with him. He was a customer, like anyone else. Gregg would comp them both Fiascolas and they’d treat it like it was a date. He’d have to ask Angus tomorrow, before he went to the Video Outpost ‘Too.’ 

Honestly, he wouldn’t mind it if Germ or even Bea spent the evening here. Anything to keep the time moving faster. 

Gregg tapped a foot against the linoleum flooring, his eyes gazing out over the rows of junk food and small accessories. Cheap sunglasses –– he’d sold plenty of those, during the last few weeks of Possum Springs’ strange indian summer. Technically, it was still summer now, but the weather tended to cool down early. The magazines the Snack Falcon carried at the front counter were already advertising Harfest party ideas. Hayrides and pumpkin carving. Soon he’d be unloading boxes of marshmallow pumpkins, and stealing several of them for Angus. 

But in the store, it was still August. 

The still life of the window was finally broken by a shadowed figure walking along the opposite side of the street. Gregg’s hand instinctively shot to the notebook, but it fell back to his side when the figure’s face passed through the beam of a streetlight, revealing only Fisherman Jones. Gregg knew plenty about Fisherman Jones, which is to say he knew very little firsthand, but the rumors about Fisherman Jones were so extensive that Gregg hadn’t bothered to start a page for the man in his journal. The web of disconnected theories about him –– he was a displace Gulf War veteran; he was a descendent of the town founders; he was a fish who’d been granted a wish to be a real boy; he was a vampire –– was more interesting than any unified theory could be.

So Gregg simply watched Fisherman Jones recede back into the shadow of the street, and allowed the still life to reform on the opposite side of the glass. Even the wind appeared to be still, the leaves on the trees untouched and immobile. 

Gregg leaned against the back wall, exhaling a deep sigh that sent his eyes up to the ratty discolored ceiling tiles. He was trying not to look at the clock; every time he did a wave of disappointment washed over him, as it was never as far along as he thought it would be. The last time he checked it was around 11:30.  _ Okay _ , he negotiated in his mind.  _ I’m betting its at least five to midnight by this point. No, no, it hasn’t been that long. 11:45. Yeah. Let’s go with that. I’m guessing it’s around 11:45. _

He looked at the clock. The hands spelled out 11:39. 

_ Son of a bitch _ , he thought. With nothing else to do, he allowed himself to simply watch the second hand creep slowly around the face, just waiting for the clock to reach 11:40, so he could at least be a little bit closer to his estimate. As the hands spun, he wondered if this would make the time go faster, overall. Just watching the second hand in motion was more motion than he’d see by staring out the window. 

Deftly the hand crept around.  _ 11:39:40...11:39:45...11:39:50...11:39:55...11:40:00… _

He smiled, faintly, and turned his attention back to the front door, where a teenager stood motionless behind the glass.

Gregg’s heart nearly flipped upside down at the shock of it. Scares and surprises were Angus’ thing, not his. He wanted anarchy, yes, but the kind where he knew what was coming next, or could retaliate. He didn’t like mysterious youths appearing at the door. 

After he collected himself, patting down his lapel to cover his thundering heartbeat, he locked eyes with the teenager again. She looked to be about sixteen, maybe slightly younger. Light black hair, almost grey in the synthetic light. A black hooded jacket and a pair of loose, torn jeans completed her look. Her eyes looked pitch black in the dim light. 

“Are you open?” came her muffled reply, staring down Gregg through the door.

_ She’s a vampire _ , his brain shouted.  _ You invite her in and she’ll suck your blood _ .

“Yes, we’re open,” said Gregg.

The teen pushed the door open, triggering the digital bell tone. It was low on batteries but still broke the silent hum of the electronics in the store. Gregg sat up, on an instinct to act like a real employee for once, and tossed out a curt “hello” to the teen as she walked into the store.

“Hey,” she replied, mechanically. Her eyes floated to Gregg respectfully, but then cast back to the ground as she walked down an aisle. The light being better indoors, Gregg noticed that her eyes weren’t quite black, but more a very darkened blue color. “Like the center of the sea,” Angus would have said, or something like it. He was the poetic one.

Gregg watched as the kid walked through the store ( _ kid _ , he thought,  _ she’s only a little younger than me _ ), over to the snacks. She stopped in front of the bags of Falconer candy, the store’s own brand, the worst tasting but least expensive –– except the gummy eggs, randomly, which were fantastic. He watched her weigh the decision of which to pick up carefully, for more than a few seconds, before Gregg realized he was staring and turned his head to inspect the nearby register. 

He considered the notebook –– had he created a profile for this mysterious teen before? He figured he would have remembered her. Perhaps she’d come in with a group before, and hadn’t made an impression. Even now, as she stood alone in the aisle, she seemed to fade into the décor. He reached for the notebook.

“Hey, question,” her voice rang out. Gregg looked up.  _ She’s an alto _ , he clocked.  _ I wonder if she sings. _

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You know which one of these is the best?”

Gregg hesitated slightly, before replying. “The gummy eggs, man. They’re the only really good one.”

“Hm,” the teen murmured. She looked down again, then held up a bag of peanut buttons. “How are these?” she asked. 

“A little dry and crumbly,” Gregg responded. “I mean, they’re not bad if you’re looking for that.”

The teen looked down again. A moment passed, and she held up another bag. “What about the yogurt pretzels?”

“It’s a coin flip,” Gregg answered. “Sometimes the pretzels arrive stale. But they’re alright either way.”

“Hm.” 

The kid took another moment to think, then picked up the pretzels and walked around the back of the store. 

She took the long way around the back of the store –– a tactic Gregg was familiar with, a way to make sure the employees didn’t notice you’d stolen something. But as the teen came around the corner and up to the register, Gregg couldn’t see any bulges in the pockets of her jacket. She wasn’t trying to lift anything.

“Just the pretzels?” asked Gregg, running the package over the scanner with a satisfying  _ beep _ .

The teen didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on the magazines at the counter. She picked one up, and flipped open the front page. She turned a few more pages, searching for something in particular. 

“Looking forward to Harfest?” asked Gregg.

“I guess,” she answered. 

“You got a costume picked out?”

“It’s August,” she said, her face unexpressive. “Besides, I’m a little old for trick-or-treating, don’t you think?”

“Never too old for costumes, though,” said Gregg. “Throw in some plastic teeth, you’re a vampire. Boom. Costume.”

“I won’t be going out,” she said. “I’m staying in, watching a bunch of old monster movies.”

She put the magazine on the counter. “I’ll take that, too, it’s got a tv guide in it.”

Gregg smiled. Something about the certainty of her plans was intriguing. 

“You like horror, then,” said Gregg. “So does my boyfriend.”

“You don’t?”

“Not really. I like danger though.”

The teen looked up at Gregg with confusion. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” she began, but didn’t go on.

Gregg didn’t respond. “Two-sixty-four,” he said, indicating the register. “Cash?”

“Cash,” she answered, reaching into her jacket pocket. Her hand emerged with a fistful of bills, from which three ones were pulled. 

“You know,” said Gregg, as he punched the numbers into the register, “they’ve got a pretty big collection of horror movies at the Video Outpost ‘Too.’ That’s where my boyfriend works.”

“Oh, does he?” asked the teen, with the slightest bit of judgement. 

_ What of it, _ thought Gregg.  _ I’ll bring up my boyfriend more. You will  _ know _ I am gay. _

“And anyway, I know about the video store,” she continued. “I’m there all the time. I think I’m, like, the only person still renting VHS tapes.”

Gregg stopped, just as he was pulling the receipt from the register. He looked up at the girl once again, this time more investigatively. The teen noticed, and looked away. 

“I know who you are!” said Gregg, excitedly. “You’re the horror girl!”

Her face went entirely red. “The...what?!” she asked, shrinking into her jacket. 

Gregg stepped back from the register, instinctively. “Oh, sorry, sorry, wow, that sounded creepy, oh, man…”

The teen said nothing. The buzz of the Fiascola machine had a moment to itself again, before Gregg spoke. 

“My boyfriend works at the Video Outpost ‘Too,’” Gregg explained. “He keeps telling me about this teenager who comes in to rent VHS tapes of horror movies. He’s like –– I mean, yes, you are the only person still renting them. But it’s...you’re the teenager!”

The girl didn’t quite know how to respond to this, but after a moment’s awkward silence, she replied with, “Um...yeah, I guess that’s me.”

“Wow,” said Gregg, a dumb smile spreading across his face. “You gotta tell Angus you saw me, next time you’re in!”

“O...kay…” said the teen. “I’ll try to remember.”

“Do, do. My name’s Gregg, by the way.”

“Uh…” said the teenager, clearly debating whether to trust this stranger. 

“You don’t have to say your name,” Gregg added, suddenly. “I know this is probably really out of nowhere, I just...sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it…”

“No, it’s...it’s fine. I guess people notice that I keep coming back…”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s cool. Angus loves horror so he’s just happy that someone is watching the old stuff. Keeping the history alive, you know.”

“Well, all the new stuff isn’t as good,” said the teenager. “All the classics, that’s when they knew how to make them.”

“That’s what Angus says,” Gregg replied. “He says everything now is just jump scares and zombies. He’s more of a ‘psychological horror’ type of guy.”

“Ah, got it,” said the teen. “I like the blood and guts stuff. But the old kind, where it doesn’t look super real.”

“Right, right,” said Gregg. “Angus showed me one of those once. It wasn’t too bad, more creepy than scary.”

“Creepy’s my vibe, I guess,” the teen responded. 

“Huh,” said Gregg.

Neither knew quite how to get out of this conversation, which was clearly over. The uncomfortable silence hung in the air a few moment longer, before Gregg remembered the change in his hand, and pulled the receipt from the printer.

“Your change is thirty-six cents,” he said, handing over the coins. 

“Thanks,” said the teen, already reaching for her snack and magazine. “I’ll let the video guy know that I saw you.”

“Great,” said Gregg, before throwing on, “you should just walk in and not say anything else, just say ‘I saw your boyfriend,’ and walk back out.”

The teen laughed a little at this. “That would fit the vibe, huh?”

Gregg smiled, brightly. He watched as the teen walked to the front door, before she turned around and looked back at the cashier.

“Lori, by the way,” she replied. “The name’s Lori M.”

“Gregg,” he replied. 

“You said that.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.”

And before Gregg could respond, Lori had slipped out the door and into the warm night air. 

It was a few more moments of staring at the doorway before Gregg thought to look back up at the clock. 

_ 11:45 _

Gregg took out the journal and opened it up on the counter. On the next fresh page, he scrawled Lori’s name across the top. 

He hesitated, running the options in his mind. He was already busily thinking of details for her –– she sleeps in a coffin! Her parents were werewolves! She owns three skulls! –– but before any of that, she needed a nickname. A sort of shorthand moniker, a codename.

It took some thinking, but eventually Gregg stumbled on the perfect term. He wrote it right underneath the name, then held the journal out in front of him.

At the top of the page, it read:

_ LORI M _

_ “HORRORSHOW" _


End file.
